The Boston Tea Party
by RoseLight
Summary: Dear Readers, you are cordially invited to a flirty fable of tea and teasing


The Boston Tea Party

I had tossed in a load of laundry and was creating vacuum trails in the carpet so it was a miracle I heard his knock at all. The young man in his crisp chauffeur's uniform presented me with the invitation. I smoothed my fingers across the creamy ivory vellum and, recognizing the embossed name and address, I was entranced with …possibilities….

The chauffeur cleared his throat. "I was instructed to wait for an answer, M'am."

"Oh, yes, of course." I was startled out of my daydream. "Please tell Dr. Winchester I would be delighted to accept."

A week later, I stood on the Beacon Hill doorstep of Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III. The home had elegant, graceful lines, nothing pretentious, and a precisely patterned garden. I was greeted by an ancient manservant who led me down halls and around corners until Dr. Winchester himself took my gloved hand and kissed it.

"Thank you for the gracious invitation to tea."

"You are most welcome, dear Ms. Light. I chose the study, so we would not be disturbed."

"How thoughtful. Although, I am a bit muddled. We've known each other for years. Why the meeting now?"

The perfect host, he settled me on the settee and reached for the porcelain floral pot, pausing to pour. "Darjeeling? Or Constant Comment?"

"Constant Comment—it describes me, I fear. And sugar please."

"Certainly. Well, my dear Rose Light, it seems you have recently posted a story featuring me, and I must say, while your plot was engaging and amusing, the climax was a tad out of character."

I sipped slowly. "How so?"

"Well, it was certainly more—passionate—than I am usually portrayed."

"It didn't flatter you, to be portrayed as an object of desire?" I asked.

"Well…it was more…my reaction, that was, perhaps, over dramatic."

"But Charles—may I call you Charles?"

He chuckled. "Considering the intimate nature of our acquaintance, I believe it would be entirely appropriate—Rose."

"Honestly, Charles, I've always felt that you have the capacity for great passion. Your true sensitivity was shared with the public only in slivers, but for the observant, it was there: your concern for the young pianist Private Sheridan and the stuttering soldier; your utter delight in, and defense of, that orphaned baby; the gentleness for your sister Honoria; your obvious attraction and affection for Martine…"

His eyes traveled back in time and regret. "Ah, Martine…"

"And I happen to know you have kept up a correspondence with some of the soldiers you helped."

Winchester squirmed at being caught in his own kindness. "A good physician follows up on his treatment," he harrumphed.

"And 'sublimation,' Charles," I teased. "Let's not forget Sublimation. Anyone who is as passionate about music as you are must be sublimating something fierce."

"Ms. Light!" He choked on a tea biscuit.

"Sublimate, sublimate, write, dance or paint; Delay gratification, moral restraint," I chanted. "A couplet I created nearly 30 years ago, to express my own experience with reining in my romantic nature, until it could be properly expressed…I understand," I patted his hand.

"And I suppose you were a virgin bride, too," he had considered sneering, but was too polite.

I blushed. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"In the 70's?" He was incredulous.

"Last of the True Romantics," I confessed. " But I believe we were discussing my portrayal of you. You've always been described as a gentleman. I see you as a man with some…selective physical experience, but not enjoying that emotional component of, well, engaging giddiness. I wanted to give you that opportunity. Make you vulnerable to the thrill, as well as the pain of loss."

"Most authors of …'fanfic'…" he rolled his eyes disparagingly, "reserve that kind of overt intensity to Pierce."

"It's true; he's the capital R of Romantics in fanfic. Perhaps that's why I was initially so reluctant to write about him. He's almost too perfect. Even his flaws are converted into charming eccentricities. And I feel you are a character who is underwritten, and has so much material to explore. That's why I was hoping that you'd approve of my efforts," I coaxed him to listen to my explanation.

"Well, yes, I appreciate your interest, it's just …'he kissed her til their bodies melted together'…? Really, my dear Rose. Isn't your prose a bit purple?"

"That's how I imagined the scene," I steadfastly defended my vision.

"You imagined me as a lover?" His voice was dark now, low, more intrigued than insulted.

I was flustered. "I imagine all my characters in all kinds of situations. How else can I write? Explore feelings, reactions, create a plot?"

"You are avoiding the question."

"Perhaps I am," I agreed quietly.

He dropped his intense gaze. "I've made you uncomfortable—I apologize. It's an unforgivable trait in a host. Tart—I mean, pastry?" He held the plate towards me.

"It's just, well, I've been accused of having a rich fantasy life. My stories are evidence of that."

"And have you ever shared your rich fantasy life with a significant man?"

I shook my head sadly. "I'd love to read my stuff aloud, as a bedtime story…some of it is quite lovely and flirty, or romantic and intense. And I'm good, too; I've studied oral interpretation and readers' theater at university. I've offered, but he's never asked, and I'm too shy to insist. It's not very flattering if the lady has to insist, you understand," I ducked my head and my voice trailed off.

Winchester considered this revelation quietly. "Ah…Rose…." He spoke my name like a caress. "I think any man would be honored…"

I interrupted him quickly. "Now we're getting into that sub-genre of 'star-crossed lovers caught in time-travel.' If I went back to 'your' time, well, I wasn't born til the year your war ended, so I'd be far too young for you. If you came to my time, as you are now, I'd be way too old for you. I'm afraid we're trapped in our own times."

"And if we were not…?"

"Oh, how you can say the most tender things in that distant voice. It would be quite the challenge for any woman to thaw Charles Emerson Winchester III...Hmm... How about some Tom and Jerry cartoons, to tickle you into a genuine smile that reaches clear to your eyes...?"

He pretended to be huffy. I pretended to believe him. "And pray, Madame, how do you know about my predilection for Tom and Jerry?" He pulled a velvet bell rope on the wall beside him, and the manservant with the tea reappeared. "Soames, call Bartleby at the capital and see if that anti-stalking legislation has been passed yet."

"Oh, c'mon, Charles, I know all about you. You are, so to speak, naked before my pen. And can you honestly say that you were not curious enough about me to sneak a peek at my author's profile?"

He possessed the good grace to blush.

I continued my reverie. "Hmm...perhaps a particular verse whispered into the right ear; someone to sink into the strength of your arms, eyes closed, completely enveloped. A seduction achingly slow and deliberate and…musical. Perhaps Delius…?" I had not even realized I was still speaking aloud.

"Ahem, my dear…the road less traveled, you know…" he diverted me.

"You're right, of course," I took another sip; the tea was tepid now. "Although," I continued with my eyes downcast. "I think it would be a heady experience…to read in bed with you." The tea cup trembled in my hand. Charles saw it and reached forward to rescue it from a cracked fate; in doing so, he touched my hands.

"Yes, well. Back to your story. Are you planning anything new at the moment?"

"Well, I don't actually 'plan' to write. I consider myself more of a Literary Thrillseeker—I do so enjoy that appellation—I'm simply always open to inspiration. Creative thrill." I leaned closer to him "Do you understand what I mean, Charles?"

To be continued…?


End file.
